


Dulce et Decorum Est

by harborshore



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 13:46:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17023734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harborshore/pseuds/harborshore
Summary: “I shall be better able to cry my outcry, playing my part.” - Wilfred Owen





	Dulce et Decorum Est

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nomeancity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomeancity/gifts).



The Folly is dark when Thomas wanders through it, nightmare clinging to his shoulders still. Molly shuts herself up at night, and Peter sleeps. Not like the dead, but like those who work hard. Which he does. That boy works so hard - exploding apples, attempting to understand the forces they work with - and Thomas has kept himself from telling Peter he reminds him of an old friend many times. But he’s thinking of David now. 

In some ways, the years when he served alone were easier.

As is customary on these nights, he ends up in the kitchen. Molly may hate it when he makes his own food, but she doesn’t begrudge him a cup of tea. Apparently these days they say you’re not to add anything stronger to it because it prevents true deep sleep, but Thomas is, still, despite everything, a creature of his own time. So, whiskey. And a seat at the window. 

Outside, London remains alive and alert. Thomas does appreciate the way the city never goes quiet; it makes it slightly more difficult for him to pay attention to his midnight maudlin self. It’s strange to have an apprentice who is so much younger than him and who doesn’t know the history at all, besides what Thomas himself tells him. Sometimes it feels liberating, being able to give Peter an approach to magical policing not born of desperation. 

His own beginnings were much less given to the practice of magic itself – he'd already been a master of it – but instead had been caught up in maintaining an equilibrium that periodically threatened to engulf him, and with him, London. Perhaps England. Thomas knows Mama Thames thinks he makes too much of himself, and she is probably correct, but being the one defence left is enough to give a man some hubris.

Tyburn definitely thinks so. He’s less willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, however.

The tea is a shade bitter; he left it too long. His mouth quirks. Some metaphors are too obvious to be allowed.

—

In the morning, Peter is half-slumped over the breakfast table. 

“Late night?” Thomas inquires courteously.

“Got caught up reading,” Peter admits, looking sheepish. When he took Peter on, Thomas had no idea apprentices were prone to too much reading. Much of what he remembers of his own studies is of trying to get out of the more tedious assignments - of course, they were schoolboys - and David was the outlier there. Everyone always preferred the practical exercises, which Peter does too, but he will not stop asking why, and he will not stop attempting to figure out the theory behind why whatever he’s doing works the way it does.

“I appreciate your diligence,” he says. “Still, may I remind you that your aim doesn’t improve with lack of sleep?”

Peter grins. “Let me prove you wrong, sir,” he says. “I will, er—“ he pauses, no doubt trying to think of a way to beat his own not-all-that-impressive record that Thomas will approve of.

“I have no doubt you’ll prove me wrong,” Thomas says, because he doesn’t. And it’s gratifying to see how happy it makes Peter to hear it. He is beginning to learn that the carrot works better than the stick, with Peter.

No one says anything else at breakfast, but it is a warm and comforting thing, to sit here while Molly glides around the kitchen and Peter eats his way through three pieces of toast and a bowl of porridge. 

—

The crime scene, later, is less comforting. A chimera, one of the more obscene creations of Albert Woodville-Gentle, has been murdered, and the verdict on whether what was done to him at the hands of the Faceless Man was worse than the murder is one that needs a wiser man than Thomas to determine. Peter vomits, something he almost never does, and Thomas has to take a breath himself, before he can do what must be done.

He takes Peter to the pub, once their work at the scene is over for the day, and makes him have something stronger than the pint he usually favours.

“This is worse than vodka,” Peter informs him.

Thomas smiles. “It’s not a bad vintage, that one,” he says, even though he certainly wouldn’t waste anything palatable on shock recovery.

“You’re lying to me,” Peter says, astute as ever. “Sir,” he adds. He remains insubordinate, but as usual is polite about it. 

“Yes,” he says, “I am. I told the barman to give us the brandy he’d put in a hot toddy.”

“I suppose it works,” Peter says, mouth quirking. “I am calmer.”

“My grandmother was often correct about many things,” Thomas says. “Hot toddies not the least of them.”

“Grandmothers often are,” Peter says. “But don’t tell my mother I said that.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Thomas says. 

Peter takes a deep breath. “Who do you think—“ he starts, then looks frustrated, starting again. “It would be difficult to get close to the chimera, with those teeth and those claws,” he says. “I don’t understand why someone would even try—”

“I doubt it was Lesley,” Thomas says. Peter winces slightly. “It wouldn’t seem to be her style. We have other foes who are more prone to that kind of violence. Perhaps this unfortunate creature knew something they shouldn’t, besides, of course, being obvious proof of villainy being done just in themselves and what was done to them.”

“I’m amazed they lived through the procedure in the first place,” Peter says. “The others were bad, this one—” He starts to look faintly green again.

“I would assume it was a line of experimentation that was later abandoned,” Thomas agrees.

“I would like us to prevent it from happening again, ever, sir,” Peter says, speaking slowly, mostly into his glass of brandy.

“Let’s by all means do our best,” Thomas says. He must admit, he has more faith in the two of them together than in himself alone. It is an honour to serve, sometimes a gruelling and a horrible one, but it’s a privilege to serve together.


End file.
